46

Natale Esposito went into the Purple Onion, a vegetarian restaurant on the West Esplanade in Metaire, New Orleans Parish, at exactly seven fifteen the following night and joined George F. Mallon, who was seated alone by the far wall beside the men’s room door, as prearranged. Natale was wired with a transmitter to send whatever he and Mallon were going to chat about to the recording machine inside the van parked thirty feet down the Esplanade from the restaurant entrance. Natale was dressed for the contractor bit: shades, floppy Capone fedora, and a horseshoe stickpin in his tie, which he had picked up that afternoon in a pawn shop.

“Mr. Mallon?”

Mallon half-rose, slightly flustered at his first meeting with a professional hit person, a figure that loomed so importantly in his country’s folklore. Although Natale had never killed anybody in his life, he had hung around with and bossed a lot of guys who had, so he knew how to comport himself with verisimilitude, which, excepting his apparel, did not differ very much from the comportment of a successful chiropractor.

“Ah. Yes,” Mallon said. “Are you the—ah—”

“Yeah. Keep your voice down.” Natale wasn’t being cautious about their being overheard—they were the only diners on that side of the restaurant—but he was afraid of causing an overload on the tape machine.

Natale sat down. He stared at Mallon.

“Are you George F. Mallon?”

“Yes. Were you—did they tell you about the assignment?”

Natale nodded. “Well—yeah. They gimme the general idea. You want somebody taken out, right?”

“What?”

“You want somebody zotzed?”

“Oh. Yes.”

“They never talk straight out about business. The man who puts out the contract lays out the hit. They call it insulation. The fewer people know, the better.”

Mallon nodded sagely. “Have you—ah—decided on your terms?”

“Sixty thousand. Forty down, twenty when the job is done.”

“That’s quite a lot of money, Mr.—ah—”

“Call me Tony. What are you talking about, a lot of money? That’s my standard money.”

“All right. I’ll pay it. I hope you know that the man I want—ah—handled—is in New York.”

“What’s his name?”

“Charles Partanna.”

“You want him hit.”

“Yes, but your fee will have to be all-in, no expenses. Air ticket, hotel, haircuts, meals, and transfers will all have to be included.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

Mallon took a slip of paper out of his side pocket. “This is the man.”

“Read it to me. I forgot my glasses.”

“Charles Partanna. His business address is the St. Joseph’s Laundry and Dry Cleaning Service, in the telephone directory in Brooklyn, New York. His home address is Number Three Manhattan Beach Plaza, Brooklyn. He drives a Chevy van with midnight black glass all around. The license number is WQH 285.”

“You want me to rub him out?”

“Yes.”

“You mean you want him dead.”

“Yes. Take him for a ride. Blow him away. And just before you do it, I want you to tell him that he is getting it courtesy of Marvin Mallon, son of George F. Mallon.”

“Your son is in on this?”

“No, no. But say it just that way. He’ll know what you mean.”

When Angelo told him at the Laundry the next day, Vincent wanted to know who got Mallon’s one hundred and forty thousand dollars.

“Who gets it? Gennaro gets it.”

“How come? He should at least split it.”

“How come? He gets it because he’s got it. Who’s gonna take it away from him?”

“I see what you mean,” Vincent said.